Parlor Games
by Dala1
Summary: Buffy gets tattooed. Faith tags along. (post-"Chosen," mild slash)


Title: Parlor Games  
  
Author: Dala  
  
Rating: PG-13 for some smoochies and one or two profanities  
  
Pairing: Buffy Summers/Faith  
  
Archive: Ask me if you'd like it  
  
Setting: About eight months after "Chosen"  
  
Feedback: Awww, please? This is the first Buffy fic I've ever posted, and the first femmeslash I've ever written. I would love to know what people think about it.  
  
Disclaimer: The characters and situations of this fanfic belong to Mutant Enemy, Joss Whedon, the WB/UPN, etc., and I am making no profit. Also, Buffy's tattoo belongs to the good people of Lucky Fish Art.  
  
Acknowledgement: Thanks and kowtows to my betas: Megan, the best damn "Buffy" beta in the world (good luck! have fun moving in!) and Beth, who handled my questions about tattoos since I have none and she has four! (personally I like your triangle the best).  
  
You can view Faith's (canonical) tattoo here: http://lavender.fortunecity.com/rampling/271/Tattoos/f.html  
  
And Buffy's tattoo here: http://www.luckyfishart.com/artofwar.html  
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
"You think you're gonna get away with that? Come back here, you piece of demon shit! I'll tear your arms out and use 'em to beat your balls off!"  
  
A roundhouse kick, a few quick jabs, a nasty right hook and Faith's opponent is on the ground. She lifts her arms in a classic victory pose.  
  
The lumpy creature on the ground grunts, rolling itself onto its back. Gloved hands reach up to take off a padded vinyl mask, revealing Buffy's face, no worse for wear but more than a little cranky. She attempts to pull herself into a sitting position, but the suit is just too damn heavy. She settles for glaring at Faith, who is now dancing around like a boxer and humming the theme from "Rocky."  
  
"Little help here, champ?"  
  
Faith turns and fixes her with a post-workout grin. "Sorry, B." She kneels to zip Buffy out of the bulky brown suit, which gives the wearer roughly the body fat index of a sumo wrestler. "It's just, things have been so quiet lately, and I've been itchin' for a fight. Guess I went a little Fantasy Island on those last few hits."  
  
"I *like* when things are quiet," Buffy replies peevishly. She hates wearing that suit; she hates anything that restricts her movements. Except maybe for a really cute brown suede jacket, tight across the shoulders, narrow at the waist, which she spotted at the Gap last week. Unfortunately her nonexistent Slayer pension doesn't really provide a dividend for the fashions she was accustomed to wearing just a few years ago. They're having a hard enough time as it is, but they are scraping by. Giles is working at the Cleveland Museum of Natural History and Buffy has taken a job with a travel agency. It's mind-numbing paperwork, but it has a good dental plan and it leaves her nights free for patrolling. Xander is slowly working his way up with a local construction company; it hurt to see him lose the regard he had in Sunnydale, but he will gain it back here, she is certain of that. Willow threw herself into her job at a downtown occult store when Kennedy left a few months ago. Andrew has found a calling in a tiny comic shop, and even Dawn is talking about maybe looking for a part-time job. Buffy hates for her to take yet another step into adulthood, but she can see that her little sister craves the independence, and she knows they could use the money.  
  
Faith is currently between jobs; she's had four or five since they had settled in Cleveland six months ago, and she refuses to tell anybody why she quit or was fired from each one. Probably the fact that she's still hiding from the police and possesses only fake forms of ID has something to do with it.  
  
Yanking the suit off of Buffy's legs at last, Faith sits next to her on the basement floor, digging in the pocket of her coat for a cigarette. Buffy makes a face at her and she rolls her eyes, but puts it back.  
  
"It's not like when you need a smoke after sex," Buffy admonishes.  
  
"Actually," says Faith, leaning back on her elbows, "it kinda is."  
  
Now it's Buffy's turn to roll her eyes. She's tired from a long night of unpleasant dreams and an equally long day at work, and their workout session hasn't helped. She hasn't been sleeping well for -- well, for what seems like forever, but for some reason it's particularly bad in Cleveland. Really she would like nothing more than to stretch out on this concrete floor right now, but it's freezing down here. Whatever heat she got from the suit is quickly dissipating, and she shivers. She misses California weather a lot more than she thought she would.  
  
Faith notices -- she always notices stuff like that -- and tosses her jacket at her fellow Slayer. Buffy murmurs, "Thanks," and snuggles into the worn black leather. This jacket has seen a lot of action, but the only scent it carries is Faith's own, an odd mixture of cheap shampoo, heavy lipstick, and something that smells like cinnamon.  
  
She misses Giles. He's in England now, helping to rebuild the Watcher's Council. He'll be back in just over a week, but still, every time he takes off for the airport she gets a little fluttering of panic in her chest. She knows Dawn gets the same way, if not worse; they have been left too many times.  
  
Glancing over at Faith, she suddenly becomes curious about the tribal tattoo on her right bicep. She has never asked about it before. "When'd you get that?"  
  
Apparently startled out of a reverie, Faith looks at her in question; Buffy gestures toward the tattoo. Faith sits up and rubs it thoughtfully.  
  
"Oh, this? 'Bout five years ago, just before I came to Sunnydale. Don't think it means anything, but I could've missed the explanation, since I was a little wasted at the time. My Watcher was pissed when she saw it. 'S not my favorite, though."  
  
"There are more?"  
  
Faith nods and pulls her tank top down over her left shoulder, turning so that Buffy can see. It is also black, a perfect miniature of the knife Faith received from the Mayor -- the knife Buffy used on Faith, the night before graduation. There is red ink on the edge of the blade, and a tiny mark below it in red -- it's a droplet, but whether it is supposed to be of blood or tears, Buffy neither knows nor wishes to ask. She and Faith share a look with lots of regret and hurt in it, but also resignation. Their past is their past. They're aware of that.  
  
"That's from when I first got to L.A., before I ran into Wolfram and Hart. And this --" She yanks the hem of her shirt up and the waistband of her sweats down, hand sliding surely over her abdomen, and touches a tattoo of a curled fist, in baby blue, four inches south of her navel and one inch left of her right hipbone.  
  
Buffy reaches out to touch this tattoo, which she somehow knows is the last. It's different from the others, both in its coloring and the way Faith cups her palm partially over it, almost lovingly, almost protectively. But she keeps her body still as Buffy's fingertip brushes the pale surface of the tiny hand.  
  
"When I was fifteen --" Faith pauses as if searching for the words. Buffy's eyes quickly dart up to hers, but Faith does not look at her, only at the blue tattoo. "When I was fifteen I got pregnant and had an abortion. Got that as a kinda memorial."  
  
Buffy isn't sure what to say, but some words come automatically for instances like these. "I'm sorry."  
  
Faith shrugs. "It was a long time ago. I was a different person."  
  
She doesn't touch Faith very often -- she doesn't touch anyone much these days, not even Dawn. Whenever somebody hugs her she can feel her body stiffen. She doesn't know exactly when this reticence to touch happened, but she imagines it has something to do with dying, and with Spike.  
  
But now she takes Faith's hand in a halting attempt at comfort. Faith isn't particularly huggable, even if Buffy were sure of how to start one. Her hand is slightly larger than Buffy's own but otherwise similar, callused and scarred from countless battles over the years, a logging truck's worth of rough wooden stakes. The fight, the Slayer destiny, is in their hands, literally and figuratively.  
  
Buffy can feel her start to pull away – to *want* to pull away. But first Faith's hand tightens in Buffy's, pressed against Faith's stomach. And then she pulls her hand away, as Buffy knew she would. But Buffy doesn't move; she lets her hand sort of hover around Faith's middle. They say nothing for a few moments, and Buffy is just beginning to panic at the awkwardness, when Faith speaks softly.  
  
"Fuck. I never told anyone that before."  
  
"I'm glad you told me." And she is, although it would have been more accurate to say that she was glad Faith had someone to tell, or that Faith trusted her enough to tell her, or that *anyone* trusted her enough to tell her something like that. But that is what slipped out first, and it isn't untrue.  
  
Faith's dark eyes flit suddenly to Buffy's. There is a question in them, a question which she has seen before, in many different circumstances. Normally this would be the point where she would become uncomfortable and withdraw, ignoring that silent half-formed thought, and then the moment would be quickly forgotten by both of them.  
  
Instead she meets Faith's gaze squarely, and she does not move her hand. Her heart is pounding and she can feel the pulse at her throat jumping erratically, but she does not move her hand. It's always felt different with Faith, because of the Slayer thing -- they're on the same wavelength. Slayer 102.9, fewer commercials and on-the-hour traffic reports. Two halves of the same whole, she used to think, one dark and one light. She wonders idly if Faith's darkness diminishing means that her own increases; at first she dismisses this as ridiculous, but then she thinks of sleeping with Spike, and letting Willow slip into evil, and being unable to connect to any of the Slayer potentials, and costing Xander an eye, and admitting to Giles that if saving the world required her Dawn's life she would let her little sister die. And she isn't so sure.  
  
She does this too much these days -- draws into herself, letting her thoughts distract her from everyday mundane situations. Although this situation is somewhat less mundane than average. She realizes that Faith is giving her a funny look, no doubt having seen her eyes grow distant.  
  
Shaking herself a little, Buffy finally reclaims her wayward limb and gets to her feet. She brushes her palms uselessly against her thighs and then hauls Faith up as well.   
  
"I think," she says, "that I would like a tattoo."  
  
Faith looks startled. Then a smile starts at one corner of her mouth and spreads across her entire face.  
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
"Well, *this* is unsavory."  
  
"It's a tattoo parlor, B, not a cup of chicken broth. It's not supposed to be savory."  
  
Buffy glances around suspiciously. Really, it isn't anything like she thought it would be; it's well-lit, for one thing, with designs covering the walls. There's a heavily tattooed man in a wifebeater sitting at the counter flipping through a magazine, but he has a friendly face. He's not all pierced and glowery, and he doesn't look like he'll leer at the two of them. And, as they approach, she sees he's reading a copy of Southern Living. She snorts in an attempt to mask her giggles. Faith elbows her in the ribs. She's got that tough skin of hers on now, a don't-fuck-with-me attitude that Buffy has always admired, and at times tried to emulate. She feels that she is able to express her own ass-kicking abilities without throwing a punch, but Faith looks better doing it.   
  
The man looks up at them. "You ladies interested in getting inked or pierced?"  
  
"Inked," replies Buffy as Faith says "Pierced" at the same time.  
  
She looks at Faith, who shrugs. "Want to do my bellybutton."  
  
"You could have told me that," Buffy mutters. They don't have the money for this. It was a stupid idea. "You know, how about you just get your piercing and I'll come pick you up later. I've changed my mind." She turns to leave, but not quick enough to avoid Faith grabbing her arm.  
  
"No way, blondie. We're both gettin' done. Come on."   
  
Buffy makes a noise of protest, but Faith pulls her along as the shopkeeper pulls up a section of the counter and lets them in the back.  
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
He shows them a book of designs after receiving a shrug from Buffy when he asks what she's interested in. Faith chooses a little silver barbell for her navel. As the tattoo artist daubs her belly with rubbing alcohol, Buffy sits next to her, thumbing through the book of designs. She finds the girly pages -- butterflies, roses, goddess knots -- but none of them really interest her. She isn't even sure where she wants this theoretical tattoo.  
  
Faith is being pierced now and out of the corner of her eye, Buffy watches. Faith focuses on the needle going in, her face impassive. If it hurts, Buffy can't see it.  
  
Once the barbell is in, Faith touches it gently as the guy explains how to care for her new piercing. She casts a slit-eyed glance at Buffy, silently daring her, and Buffy reaches out a bold hand to examine the barbell as well. Faith's stomach muscles are taut and lean, and her skin is soft, well-maintained despite all she's been through. This is the second time she has ever touched Faith in a semi-intimate fashion; this time as her fingers brush over pale flesh, Faith's stomach jumps a little against her. Buffy hopes her fingertips aren't cold.  
  
The tattoo artist seems to take no notice of this; he tells Buffy that she can take her time picking out her design. Faith hops down from her chair and they lean over the book on a table, heads bent close together. Light and dark, Buffy thinks. It must be a pretty picture.  
  
"You really don't have any idea what you want?" Faith asks.  
  
Buffy wishes their hands would touch as they turn the pages. "I've always liked Celtic stuff," she says, thinking of the tattoo on Angel's back. "And I like your tribal arm-thingy."  
  
"Celtic cross?" Faith flips to the appropriate section and Buffy considers.They're all pretty and it would be fitting, but...  
  
"Nah."  
  
"You're a hard to please woman, B, you know that?"  
  
"Am not," says Buffy defensively. "I'm just...choosy."  
  
"Sure," Faith says, smirking. Buffy is about to ask her just what she means when they come to the tribal designs pages. A black image with bold, sharp strokes comes to her attention. It reminds her a bit of Faith's tattoo, but without the swirly bits, and thicker.   
  
She touches it and says, "I kinda like that."  
  
Faith leans closer and reads the title. "It's called 'the Art of War.'" She draws back and quirks an eyebrow at Buffy. "Gentle when stroked, fierce when provoked.' Sounds perfect to me."  
  
Amazingly, Buffy finds herself not blushing. "Yeah," she says decisively, "that's it."  
  
"Where do you want it?" the tattoo artist asks. Buffy frowns. She hasn't thought about that yet.  
  
"Can I make a suggestion?" says Faith, raising her hand. "Your lower back."  
  
Buffy glances at her backside out of reflex. "Will it hurt more back there?"  
  
"I can't believe *you're* worried about the pain," Faith teases. "It's cute." Buffy looks at her sharply, but she says it deadpan.  
  
She pulls in her lower lip, considering. It would be sexy. And the shape is right. And it wouldn't be easily seen.  
  
And Faith suggested it. Faith knows more about these things than Buffy does.  
  
"Okay," she says meekly, nervous again. Which is ridiculous -- she's the Slayer, the chosen one, or, okay, one of the chosen two, and do all the potentials to whom Willow gave power count? She decides that they don't. It's still hers and Faith's club. Anyway, she's been shot and stabbed and beaten to a pulp; this shouldn't be any big deal.  
  
She lies on her stomach on a worktable, a sheet of paper underneath her like the kind they have in doctors' offices, after pulling her black sweatpants down a little and her gray tank up a little. Breathing deeply, she closes her eyes as the area gets cleaned. She is remembering many things, not least of all being in virtually this same position with Ethan Rayne standing above her, a needle in one hand and hydrochloric acid in the other.  
  
Faith leans down, concern reluctantly showing on her face. "You okay?"  
  
Buffy nods. "I just don't like needles very much," she confesses in a small voice. There's the disaster with Giles' old school buddies, but it's more than that. Needles go in hospitals, and there's Mom to remember, and before that Celia.   
  
Awkwardly Faith pats her shoulder. "We don't really have to do this, you know," she says in a low voice. The tattoo guy has paused. "Say the word and we'll go home."  
  
"No," Buffy replies stubbornly. "I want to."  
  
"You sure, Buffy?" She opens her eyes upon hearing her full name. Faith has stood up and Buffy is now eye-level with her waist, the new navel ring flashing at her.  
  
"Yes." Then, almost mumbled into the table, so quietly it's barely audible but of course Faith hears: "Hold my hand?"  
  
Faith gives the tattoo artist the thumbs up and says, not without affection, "Can't talk a Summers woman out of anything, I guess."  
  
Then she lays her hand on Buffy's, just in time for the first prick of the needle.  
  
It doesn't hurt much, really. It feels more like a pinch than anything else, and Buffy got some vicious pinches from Dawn when they were little. Still, it's very uncomfortable, and though Slayers typically have a high tolerance for pain, self-inflicted pain is something else altogether. She's glad for Faith's warm hand on her own; every now and then Faith will stroke Buffy's wrist with her thumb. Slayer hands. They aren't the hands of a man or a woman, a child or an adult, they're only Slayer hands like her own.  
  
The process takes about an hour, and Faith doesn't once let go of Buffy's hand. It isn't as expensive as Buffy thought it would be. Giles is going to kill her regardless, but at least she feels a bit better about the price. And she can always tell him that at least it's not an *evil* tattoo. The tattoo man tells her to put lotion on it a few times a day for the next couple of weeks, and not to immerse it in water, as he's ringing them up.  
  
"It'll itch like a mother," Faith adds, Buffy's fingers lightly encircling her wrist. It's comfortable like that, and Buffy doesn't want to analyze it or explain it away.  
  
It's full dark as they wander through the streets of downtown Cleveland, keeping an eye out for both human and demon predators. There's nothing for a good ten minutes, for which Buffy is grateful, because she still has her grip on Faith's wrist and they're walking very close together and she wouldn't interrupt it for anything.  
  
But Faith ducks her head, peering down an alleyway and drawing them both to a stop. "You hear that?" Buffy didn't hear anything, but she follows Faith into the alley, first glancing around for anything setting a trap.  
  
Once she's around the corner it's much darker, and she can't see Faith at all. Her throat tightens, but before she can say anything she finds herself pressed to the brick wall, Faith's arms on either side of her.  
  
A smile twitches at the corner of Buffy's mouth. "Heard something, huh?"  
  
"Yup," Faith says cheerfully. "Think it's gone now." She leans in close, her nose bumping Buffy's, and that faint hint of cinnamon grows stronger. Instead of kissing Buffy properly, however, Faith presses a set of full lips to her cheek. It would be sisterly if they weren't so close and Faith's mouth wasn't so enticing and Buffy's legs weren't starting to shake as the Faith runs her fingertips gently over her new tattoo.  
  
Listen to Slayer 102.9, she thinks. It'll blow your mind.  
  
Then they're kissing for real and Buffy is touching Faith intimately for the third time, and the fourth time, and the fifth and sixth and seventh until she finally loses count.  
  
~~~~~~~~ 


End file.
